As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!

Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,
And trails its blossoms in the dust.

FROM "MISCELLANEOUS POEMS."

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn to night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him ring his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,-
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,-

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!

THE RAINY DAY,

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

266527/

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the cloud is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all;
Into each life some rain must fall,-
Some days must be dark and dreary.

BLIND BARTIMEUS.

BLIND Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in darkness waits;

He hears the crowd ;-he hears a breath

Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth;

And calls in tones of agony,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με !

The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee!"

Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, φωνεῖ σε!

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?"
And he replies, "O give me light!

Rabbi restore the blind man's sight!" And Jesus answers "Yπaɣɛ,

Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε !

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,

In darkness and in misery,

Recall those mighty Voices Three,

Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με !

Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε !

Η πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε !

EXCELSIOR.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath;

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright